The Story of a Boy
by cinnamonarabesque
Summary: "Maybe he could have been happy. Maybe he could have loved her, if things had gone differently. But they didn't." A story focussed on the less-perfect parts of wizarding society. Oneshot.


**Hey! Thi is just a little something I churned out after thinking a bit on the less-perfect bits of wizarding society. After all, with how Neville's grandmother reacted to him _maybe_ being a squib, imagine how a pureblooded family would react to their child being non-magical. **

**~cinnamonarabesque**

This is the story of a boy with amazing talent.

a boy who was so ambitious that nothing could get in his way.

A boy who was crushed by society.

A boy who turned bitter and angry.

A boy who could have made the world a better place but was shunned and despised.

This is the story of the less perfect parts of wizarding society.

**IiIiIiIiIiI**

His parents had despised him from the day that they realized that he was a squib, that he didn't have an ounce of magic in him. He had no siblings, despite his parent's numerous attempts, and what had once been presents and love and doting had quickly turned to harsh words and disappointed glares. In a way, he was glad when his parents stopped talking to him, except to call him for dinner.

Eventually they stopped doing even that and just left his plate out on the counter. They told their friends that he had moved to Ireland to live with his aunt for a month or so and decided to stay, and was now attending a prestigious school there. They said he was at the top of his class, that he was popular and powerful.

He wished it were true.

Maybe then his parents could stand to look at him.

Maybe then they could love him.

He had known there was something strange going on at the wand shop when none of the wands would react to him. Eventually his mother had grabbed a wand for him while the old man - Olivander - wasn't looking, and while the sparks had shot out of the end, she had thrust the stick into his hand, claiming that the wand was his.

He had looked suspicious, but had sold them the wand anyway.

The rest of their stay in diagon alley was full of pursed lips and discreet glances from his mother. He hadn't understood what was wrong at the time, only that he had somehow upset her. It was only after hearing his parent's hushed conversation that night that he finally realized what was happening.

He had hidden behind the door frame, a sliver of light hitting his face as he eavesdropped on his parents.

"Maybe he's just a late bloomer." His mother had protested weakly, her head in her hands. She hadn't wanted to believe it any more than his father.

"Don't give me that shit!" His father snarled, slamming a fist onto the hardwood kitchen table with a loud bang.

The small child recoiled at the venom in his voice.

"You know just as well as I do, he's a squib! You gave birth to a squib!"

His mother flinched back at his harsh tone, but made no move to defend herself from the verbal abuse.

The man growled as he stood abruptly from the table, "God, I just- I can't even look at you right now!" He spat, turning away from the distraught woman. She let out a muffled sob, letting her soft auburn hair fall forward to conceal her face.

Tears beginning to form in his eyes, the child fled room without a sound.

He had sat in his room until late hours into the night, recalling the conversation. He didn't know what a squib was, but it sounded bad. The way his father had spoken the word bothered him, as if it was poison in his mouth… He shook his head. He eventually decided to forget about it, or at least try to. It was just a bad dream.

Everything would be back to normal in the morning.

It wasn't.

At the breakfast table there was only silence, the kind of silence that wraps around you and threatens to suffocate you, the kind if silence so thick that it leaves no room for words. His mother looked down at the table, hugging herself as if trying not to cry every time she spared her son a glance, and his father was deathly silent, his face carefully expressionless. Something had shifted, majorly. He could feel it.

After that, the boy spent most of his time shut up in the library, reading about the magic that he would never be able to do. He waved his wand and shouted the incantations, but nothing happened. There were no sparks, no telltale signs that there was magic in the air, or even that the wand recognized that someone was holding it.

And then he came across a book on potions.

This particular book mentioned that potions could be made by anyone, even a muggle. He didn't tell his parents about his discovery, but he started using their lab at night, brewing potions. After he exhausted his intellect _learning_ the potions, he began to create his own. He made potions that would have the same effect as a spell, but could be used by squibs and muggles. His plan was to sell them, and bring the money back to his parents to show him that he could be just as successful without magic.

Maybe he could have been, if things had gone differently.

But they didn't.

The man was stooped over, his face warty from the fumes of his various cauldrons. When the now young man came entered his shop, he cackled maniacally.

"What have we here?" He growled, bending over to sniff the vile in the boy's hand. "I don't recognize this potion."

The boy cleared his throat, trying not to be too intimidated by the strange man, "That's because I made it."

"Oh, did you?" The man said mockingly, his beady eyes peering up at him. "And what does this one do? Turn your toes pink? Make you grow hair from your eyes? NO THANK YOU!"

"It - it duplicates things."

The man let out a large guffaw, "Oh, of all the-" He snatched the vile out of his hands, and let a few drops fall onto a ladle on his messy worktable. It worked.

Looking down at the second, identical ladle, the boy stood a little straighter, his heart filling with pride at his accomplishment. He had done it. It worked. He could go home with his head held high, finally. His parent would love him, would finally accept him.

The man saw his newfound confidence and sneered. "And why, pray tell, couldn't I have completed the same task with my wand?"

"Well," the boy said nervously, "it's for squibs, so we can do magic too."

And maybe he hadn't said that.

Maybe if he hadn't said we.

Maybe then things would have gone differently.

But he said it.

And his fate was sealed.

The man's eyes darkened, and he took a menacing step forward. "I don't do business with squibs, boy," he snarled viciously, "And neither does anyone one else, so you'd best get out! You're a disgrace!" The man grabbed the vile and threw it to the ground, where it shattered on the stone.

The boy stared at it on disbelief, watching all of his hard work for the past year seep underneath the cobblestones.

"Fix that with your silly potions!" The man sneered, shoving the young boy out the door.

He ran, refusing to let the tears fall.

He tucked all of his hopes, his fears, his emotions into a tight little box in the back of his mind and forgot them. What use were emotions if they couldn't help him prove himself to his parents? What good was love if that hadn't stopped his father from walking out on his mother because of his inadequateness? He would never be good enough for them, never good enough for this society.

And so, the day he turned seventeen, he left.

He packed up his things and ventured into the muggle world, the place his parents had spoken of with such distaste.

But what options did he have?

After all, anything was better than the hell he had been living before.

It was there that he met a beautiful, kind muggle named Kelly. It was easy for him to control her, to make her love him. She worshipped the very ground he walked on, and he loved it.

He decided to marry her.

She was pregnant a few months later.

Imagine his shock when he realized that his daughter was as magical as his parents had been.

Imagine his hatred.

And so the cycle continued.

Maybe he could have loved her, if things had gone differently.

Maybe he could have been happy.

But they didn't.

**A little dark, but my muse wouldn't stop pestering me. :) I love feedback, the good, the bad, and the downright mean. I live on feedback. Reviews are my life! Anyway, I hope you enjoy. And please review! Honestly. It would be so easy! Just type **

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